And So We Meet Again
by TunaSandw1ch
Summary: Betty left town abruptly five years ago. Finally she's returned. Sweet two-shot in which Betty and Jughead reconnect.
1. Chapter 1

She was out in the front yard when he passed. He had his head down.

She didn't recognise him at first. The beanie he always wore when they were younger was gone. Shoe wondered when that had happened. What else had changed since she'd last lived here?

He didn't see her, at least she didn't think so. He had headphones in and was carrying groceries down the street. There were a lot. Three bags. Maybe he had a family to feed, now. She wouldn't know.

It had been five years since she'd left Riverdale. Her parents had packed up and moved out, dragging her along with them, kicking and screaming. They said it was too dangerous here. That they needed to move for _her_ safety.

She hadn't got to say goodbye.

"Juggie!" She called, dropping the box of stuff she'd intended to move into the house.

He didn't hear her, kept walking.

She watched him retreat, wondering about his new life.

Maybe he'd met a girl with beautiful, long brown hair and caramel eyes, someone who matched him, looked like they belonged on his arm. She'd always been to light, too sunshine to his shadow. Maybe he'd realised that after she left. Maybe they'd gotten married. She'd never thought of Jughead as the marrying type, but maybe she'd converted him, this hypothetical mystery woman.

Maybe they had a kid. A one year old waiting patiently for his father to get home with wide, Jughead-blue eyes.

Her stomach lurched.

They'd moved to Oregon, Betty and her family. She'd completed school there, and done a course in journalism there. She'd been unsure of what major to take, but when she thought of him, the way he made anything seem possible, she'd chosen with her heart. Journalism. Just like the old days at the Blue and Gold.

It was stupid of her to expect that nothing would change in her time away, but she'd hoped. She'd hoped that everyone would still be there, but Veronica was in New York for a year, handling the business left to her by her father. Archie was on tour with the Pussycats as an opening act. Jughead was here, but it wasn't the same.

It should have been her that he was going home to.

It should have been her he was going home to, but instead he was going home to an empty house.

He'd seen her drive into town in that small, pale blue car. Very Betty, he'd thought absently, before looking closer and realising that it was very Betty because it _was_ Betty. She hadn't seen him. He'd melted into the shadows, as usual.

He wondered if she ever thought of him, after she left. Did she find herself touching the pages of books they'd read together, did she feel the drop of nostalgia in her stomach when she watched an old film like they used to in her attic, where she'd set up a projector for him to fill the void the drive-in theatre had left? Because he did.

Why had she left?

And why didn't she say goodbye?

She was moving into the house a block down from his. It was big. _Family-sized._ He wondered if she'd met someone in Oregon. That's where Veronica said she went. He bet Betty's new man was handsome. And blonde. She deserved someone who complimented her sunshine, rather than negating it with darkness like he was wont to do.

Maybe she had a child.

The thought made Jughead feel physically sick as he walked past her new house one summer day. She was out in the yard, bringing in boxes.

Jughead never really thought of himself as a father, but whenever he'd imagined himself in a family, it was with Betty by his side as his wife, a blonde haired, blue eyes little girl in her arms.

He had to get away, the feeling was overwhelming.

He thought he heard her call out to him, but it might have been his imagination.

They didn't meet again for a while. Jughead was busy with his job at the Riverdale Gazette. Betty had managed to get a teaching position at Riverdale High.

But Betty just couldn't stay away from Pop Tate's, she'd been craving a burger all week.

And Jughead had to go to the Chocklit Shoppe, because where else could he draw enough inspiration to write?

She didn't see him sitting in the booth with his computer, at first. Out of habit, she took a seat in the booth that had always been theirs.

He looked up as she sat down. Their gazes met, and she looked away with a blush.

"I - I'm sorry." She apologised, not meeting his eye. "I didn't see you there,"

He chuckled and she looked up quickly, taking the opportunity to observe him. He looked the same, if a bit older, with darker rings under his eyes. Bright blue eyes, just as she remembered. He was work, but he was still the Jughead she knew.

He watched her watch him. She hadn't changed. Her hair had grown slightly longer, and she wore it down, but staring back at him was the same face he'd fallen in love with five years ago.

"Bets," greeted Jughead, smiling softly at the apprehensive blonde before him. "Don't be a stranger. Sit," He insisted firmly.

She smiled back.

God, he'd missed that smile.

"Hey Juggie," She said in an almost-whisper. "How ya been?"


	2. Chapter 2

"So, um, how was…" Jughead struggled for words as he stared at the blonde in front of him. "Oregon?"

"Portland," Betty nodded in confirmation. "It was good."

There was a pause.

"Lonely," she added, as though it were an afterthought. It wasn't. She'd been miserable these last five years. She'd had friendships, but they were fleeting. Joining a new school for junior year, she'd been an outcast, stuck on the edge of cliques, panicking every lunch time that she'd be forced to sit alone.

She'd hoped university would be different, but it wasn't. Portland was just so… different from Riverdale in so many ways. Betty felt out of place, her 'perfect' look, so carefully cultivated by her mother and adopted by her, didn't fit with the scruffy beards and the flannel shirts.

She'd missed Jughead's flannel shirts. They were old and soft, from a budget rack in Walmart, not pricey or 'distressed' like the ones she saw around campus.

Jughead couldn't imagine a world where people didn't like Betty.

He snorted, and Betty shot him what was meant to be a serious look. It cracked as soon as their eyes met, the familiarity coaxing giggles from deep within her chest.

"Sorry, Bets," He apologised, chuckling. His eyes didn't leave her face. "But I just can't see you as the 'loner' type."

"You mean dark and broody with a beanie that I never take off my head," She teased, stealing a fry off of his plate.

He 'tsk'ed, but didn't say anything, enjoying the familiar routine they had slipped into. Years apart may have affected their words, but not their actions.

"What happened to that, anyway?"

"Huh?" Jughead asked. He'd been distracted. His eyes had followed the fry's path from his plate to her lips and her lips had led to thoughts of… well, you know.

"Your beanie," She clarified, smiling. It was just like Jughead to zone out in the middle of conversation. Some things never changed.

He shrugged. He hadn't thought about it in a while. After she'd left, he'd taken it off and never put it back on again. It had been with him as long as she had and it just felt… wrong.

"Just… felt a bit…" He trailed off. He wasn't sure he wanted Betty to know the reason. She'd hurt him when she left without a goodbye, and while he could pretend it didn't happen, sitting in the booth with her now, some wounds took time to heal.

Betty looked down.

"It's a shame," She said softly. He strained to hear her. "It suited you."

They lapsed into silence, neither knowing what to say. She could feel he was holding back, and she guessed it was about her abrupt departure. He could tell she was working up the nerve to say something.

"I'm sorry, Juggie," He raised his eyebrows. That was unexpected. He said nothing, allowing her to continue.

"You must have thought I was such a - a bitch!" She exclaimed.

"No Bets, I'd never -" Jughead tried to interject. He was taken aback. Betty rarely used such language to describe anyone, let alone herself.

"But I was!" She insisted, cutting him off. " I left without warning I didn't call I'm so, so sorry."

Her words pushed on bruises he had thought had healed long ago.

"Why?" He asked quietly. He'd always tried to rationalise her leaving. Knowing Betty, she'd have a reason. He'd just never quite figured out what that reason was.

Betty sighed, knowing this conversation had been coming, and hoping that her explanation would be enough.

"We left because my parents decided it wasn't safe." She took a breath.

Jughead nodded for her to go on.

"After all the stuff with Jason and us investigating, getting so close to the case… they thought it would be better that we just, left," She left out the fact that they also happened to disapprove of Jughead.

"I fought it as hard as I could," She tried to assure him, and he gave her a small smile. It took a weight off her chest somewhat, allowing her to continue. "They wouldn't budge."

"I meant to call you, I did, but the first few weeks we were there, it was so frantic, such a sudden move, that I couldn't."

She looked away from him, ashamed.

"And then the longer I went without calling, the weirder it would be when I did call and I just…"

"Never did." Jughead finished.

She reached across the table to place a hand over his, stroking the smooth flesh with her thumb.

She didn't try and apologise again. She didn't say anything. She was giving him time.

"You could have called me, Betty," He said finally. "After a week, a month, a year, I would have talked, listened."

He took a breath.

"I _missed_ you,"

"I know -"

"Do you?" He asked. It wasn't aggressive. It was soft, broken. "I waited for a call. For months. I thought about you every day. I spent the whole time wondering if you missed me as much as I missed you, it didn't even occur to me that I didn't even know where in America you were until Veronica mentioned Oregon."

"I wondered about you, Jug." Betty began quietly. "You were on my mind constantly. I'd see something, a movie or a poster or a book, and I'd look around for you to point it out. I'd look to my side and it would be empty. I'd see a grey beanie, and I'd get excited, thinking it was you. Then I'd remember I hadn't spoken to you in four years. I _missed_ you, Jug."

He'd shifted his hand from underneath hers to on top, and has holding it softly on the table.

"Four years," He repeated. "Has it really been four years?"

It was easy to forget the endless days between now and the last time he saw her. In her presence, the years that had seemed so long managed to feel small, insignificant.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear with her free hand.

"Five years," She corrected. They shared a smile. It was light, free from restraint now.

"Well then," Jughead's smile widened. "We have a lot of catching up to do."


End file.
